


Merry Yuletide

by HiddenKitty



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M, fake boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Loosely based on the famous Craigslist ad.  Written very quickly and it shows, plus, I'm so sorry this didn't quite turn out as cracky as I intended...  :(</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your Dad?</i><br/><i>I am a twenty-eight year old felon with no job and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine depending on if I shave. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long and/or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game.</i><br/><i>I can do these things, at your request:</i><br/><i>-Openly hit on female guests while you pretend not to notice.</i><br/><i>-Start instigative discussions about religion and/or politics.</i><br/><i>-Pretend to be very drunk as the evening goes on. (Sorry, I don’t drink, but I used to. A lot. Too much, in fact. I know the drill.)</i><br/><i>-Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.</i><br/><i>I require no pay but the free meal I will receive as a guest!"</i></p>
    </blockquote>





	Merry Yuletide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts).



> Loosely based on the famous Craigslist ad. Written very quickly and it shows, plus, I'm so sorry this didn't quite turn out as cracky as I intended... :(
> 
>  
> 
> _"Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your Dad?_  
>  _I am a twenty-eight year old felon with no job and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine depending on if I shave. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long and/or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game._  
>  _I can do these things, at your request:_  
>  _-Openly hit on female guests while you pretend not to notice._  
>  _-Start instigative discussions about religion and/or politics._  
>  _-Pretend to be very drunk as the evening goes on. (Sorry, I don’t drink, but I used to. A lot. Too much, in fact. I know the drill.)_  
>  _-Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see._  
>  _I require no pay but the free meal I will receive as a guest!"_

Thorin could hear Frerin’s approach well before he saw him, the ring of steel-capped boots echoing through the stone corridor that led to their home in Ered Luin.

“What is the end of the world today?” asked Thorin mildly, as his younger brother emerged and promptly threw himself across the kitchen table.

“Father has asked me to join him at the Council on Highday,” wailed Frerin. “But I had plans for Highday! Important ones!”

Thorin raised his eyebrows, observing his brother’s melodramatics with the attention they deserved, which was not much. 

“Not more important that Father’s bidding,” he said, and Frerin nodded, drumming his fingers on the wooden tabletop and pulling at his blonde hair pettishly. 

The line of Durin might be living in exile now, but their responsibilities remained. Though Thorin and his family lived in the same modest apartments as the rest of their people, working in the forges of Men and trading in their markets, they remained the leaders of their people. Thrain’s invitation to the Council could not simply be ignored. Not even by a dwarf as feckless as Frerin.

“Of course not. It is only... I made a promise.” Frerin looked genuinely sad for a moment, then brightened, staring up at Thorin with an alarmingly intent expression. “Thorin. You. It’s just possible you could save my life.”

Thorin groaned, turning back to scouring his fingernails with a shake of his head. Dis insisted they all bring clean hands to the table, but for all his picking and washing, there was no way to remove the ingrained dirt of long days at the forge. No longer the hands of a Prince, he thought grimly, observing the pink scar lines and scabs that decorated his skin.

Apparently his lack of refusal was enough for Frerin. “It is for Bilbo,” he began, and Thorin frowned, not recognising the name.

“Who?”

“Bilbo Baggins, that rich fellow in Hobbiton. You recall, the one who buys all those kitchen tools? To speak true, I think he is a little sweet on me.”

Thorin snorted at that. Handsome and personable as his brother was, it seemed unlikely that the little inhabitants of the Shire would be charmed by him. Most seemed more afraid of dwarves than anything else, not that Thorin had had much dealing with them. He left the stall-keeping to his brother. It was better that way; Thorin had no gift for charm himself.

“I spoke with him the other day and it seems there is some important feast-day approaching in their calendar, and he has some churlish relatives visiting who wish to persuade him into marriage. I offered to attend and pretend to be his betrothed, and argue with them all, and create a grand mayhem. He thought it a marvellous idea and it was agreed then and there. But now… Please, Thorin. He is a friend, and I gave him my word, and I hear he is a fine cook, so there would be a hot dinner in it for you at least.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Thorin, with dawning horror. 

“In truth?” asked Frerin, grinning like a wolf. “I would have been acting, but you, dear brother… you can just be yourself.”

\--

Bilbo Baggins lived in a house at the top of Hobbiton, with a round green door and a large tree above it. The road approaching it twisted oddly to fit around the rolling hills, so that Thorin almost headed the wrong way before his brother turned him back around. Things were simpler underground, thought Thorin. Stone could be worked in straight lines.

The door was opened by a smartly-dressed hobbit with a wide smile and a mop of curly reddish-brown hair. His waistcoat buttons were polished brass and his neckerchief shimmering silk, and Thorin felt unpleasantly coarse and shabby in comparison.

“Mister Frerin!” cried the hobbit. “What a lovely surprise, come in, come in! You know it isn’t Yule today, don’t you?”

“Bilbo,” said Frerin warmly. “I do, indeed. I will explain in a moment, but first I must introduce my dear brother Thorin.”

“At your service,” growled Thorin, bowing low. He looked up to find the hobbit staring at him, mouth open in shock. 

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” replied Bilbo, blinking at him as if he had two heads. “Wait, boots off. You’re not tromping all that mud through here.”

Thorin looked down and grudgingly removed his boots as his brother did the same. He pushed the door closed behind him and it rebounded back against his hand.

“Oh, yes, don’t mind that, the latch sticks a bit,” said Bilbo dismissively.

Thorin looked at it. The iron was badly cast and rough to the touch on one side, but it would be a moment’s work with a decent file to smooth it off. “I will fix it.”

He saw Frerin and Bilbo exchange a look that spoke quantities of confusion and amusement. 

“That’s very kind of you,” said Bilbo. “Um, would you like some tea?”

The hobbit’s kitchen was rather cramped for Thorin’s comfort, with a low ceiling and little space to move, but it was cosy enough, and the tea was hot and strong. He sat quietly, content to let his brother do the talking, and took one of the sugared biscuits Bilbo had set out for them. And then another. They were exceptionally good, buttery and light, and boded well for Thorin’s free meal.

“Yes,” said Bilbo at length, eyeing Thorin with some trepidation. “In all honestly, Mister Thorin, I wouldn’t wish to impose upon you, but I must say I should think you’ll do the job perfectly. Lobelia might never speak to me again.”

The pair of them grinned at Thorin, who tried not to feel too offended.

\--

On Highday morning, Thorin brushed and re-braided his hair before setting off. He wore a clean tunic, a clean shirt beneath it, and had washed most of the mud from his boots. He did not wish to appear too brutish, after all, and if this feast was so important then surely it made sense that he would make a little effort with his appearance, for the sake of his betrothed. He growled at the polished silver platter he was using as a mirror, and wondered for the thousandth time how Frerin could cause him such endless trouble.

So far as he was aware no time had been set for his arrival at Mister Baggins’ home and, recalling the impossibly twisting roads of the Shire, he set off well before lunchtime. Still he took a wrong turn, and was not in the best of sorts as he knocked upon the familiar green door, hefting the bag of tools on his shoulder and waiting. It was cold, near midwinter, and Thorin stamped his feet to keep warm in the frosty air. No one had answered yet, so he knocked again.

Bilbo Baggins opened his door at last wearing a long apron over his clothes and with a smear of flour on his nose. He boggled at Thorin quite as if he hadn’t expected guests at all, and for a moment Thorin wondered if this was the wrong day.

“Goodness,” stammered Bilbo, looking him over. “You scrub up well, don’t you? I mean, I’m sorry, that came out wrong, what I mean is you look very handsome. Which is to say, well, er, I’m sorry, do come in, would you like some tea?”

Thorin nodded. It seemed the safest course of action under the circumstances, since he had absolutely no idea what Bilbo was talking about. He had scrubbed himself well enough, to be sure, but never before had he heard the observation phrased as a compliment. Thorin followed the hobbit into his smial, pushing the door closed behind him, and frowned as he heard the bounce of the lock failing to shut.

With a sigh, Thorin shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began to unpack his tools. The lock was easy enough to unscrew, and with only a few strokes of his file it was smooth enough to click into place exactly as it should. He oiled it and tested it a few times, until he was confident that it would not stick.

Bilbo appeared beside him, holding out the cup of tea with a smile. “Thank you, Thorin. Um, I don’t suppose you could look at the window lock in the parlour, could you?”

“Of course,” said Thorin, unexpectedly pleased by Bilbo’s smile. Whilst he was here, he might as well be useful. 

The hobbit’s parlour was warm with sunlight, despite the frost outside. Thorin turned the handle of the window gently, feeling the crunch of iron against iron and where it would need to be eased. It was a simple enough job, but there was some satisfaction in knowing his work would be appreciated, since Bilbo stood leaning against the doorway of the kitchen watching him work, blowing on his own tea as he sipped it. He had removed the apron and put his waistcoat on, and the cold winter’s sunshine caught in the curls of his hair, on his head and his feet, lighting strands of the reddish-brown so that they sparkled like his brass buttons. He was nothing like a dwarf, and yet Thorin couldn’t stop glancing over at him.

“Here,” said Bilbo after a while, tossing a round orange ball towards Thorin. “Leftover from the goose. Thought you might appreciate a snack, after all your hard work.”

Thorin looked at the fruit in his hand and suppressed a grimace. He had tried these before, and remembered the dimpled skin so thick and bitter he had dropped it in disgust after a single bite. Still he wished to be polite, and lifted it to his mouth.

“What… no, no, no!” spluttered Bilbo. “That’s not… have you not eaten an orange before?” 

He came over to sit by the window next to Thorin and took the odd fruit back. Bilbo’s hands were terribly small and soft, but his fingers were deft, and Thorin watched as he dug into the fruit and peeled away the layers of white and orange skin to reveal a strangely segmented ball, then broke it apart into two dry halves. He pulled one piece away and held it out to Thorin, who could only view it with suspicion. 

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Bilbo, popping the segment whole into his mouth, where he chewed it twice before swallowing and smiling widely. The smile suited him, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “They’re delicious, you know.” He waggled another before Thorin’s face as if trying to tempt a child.

There was no earthly reason why Thorin should not have simply reached up to take it from his hand, and yet he opened his mouth instead. Bilbo blinked for a moment, and then set it on Thorin’s tongue, and if Thorin was not mistaken the hobbit’s face looked rather flushed. He bit into the orange segment and juice flooded his mouth unexpectedly, sweet and tart at the same time.

“That is very good,” he said, once he’d swallowed. “Thank you.”

“You - you’re welcome,” stammered Bilbo, staring at him, the orange forgotten in his hands, and there came a sharp rapping at the already open front door.

Bilbo scrambled to his feet, and Thorin stood to follow him into the hallway. On the doorstep stood three more hobbits, from their fancy clothing a male and two ladies. 

“Lobelia! Otho!” exclaimed Bilbo, sounding somewhat breathless. “You’re early.”

“I shouldn’t want to interrupt, I’m sure,” said one of the hobbits, the one with bright yellow ruffles covering almost every inch of her attire. She swept into the smial nonetheless, untying her exceptionally ugly bonnet and hanging it on the coatrack before setting her hands to her hips and looking Thorin over with a very sour expression indeed. 

“Well then,” said Bilbo hurriedly. “Thorin, this is my cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and her husband Otho, and their neighbour, is it, I think, Miss Dorcas Boggs? Lobelia, Otho, Miss Boggs, this is Thorin.” He slipped his hand awkwardly into Thorin’s and held it, lifting his chin. His skin was warm and soft, thought Thorin, startled by the contact. “Thorin is my betrothed.”

All three hobbits froze in horror and stared at Thorin. Lobelia was the first to speak. “It’s a dwarf!”

“He is,” replied Bilbo, with a little emphasis on the first word, clutching Thorin’s hand a little tighter.

“Bilbo, what nonsense! You can’t marry a dwarf! Especially not a male dwarf!”

“Such marriages are not uncommon amongst my people,” supplied Thorin, since that was true enough.

“Amongst your people,” sniffed Lobelia, with evident contempt. “I’d hardly call it natural, Bilbo.”

“I would thank you not to insult Dwarven ways in my hearing, Mrs Sackville-Baggins,” growled Thorin, and was pleased to see her take a step backwards. From the corner of his eye he noticed Bilbo hiding a smirk. 

“Come through, come through,” Bilbo said, waving everyone into the dining room. “I should think we’ll be ready soon enough, and we can always have a drink while we wait.”

Thorin followed obediently. Quantities of winter berries and tree branches had been arranged about the walls and fireplace for some reason, although he supposed it looked pretty enough. He found himself seated alone on one side of the dining table with three hobbits opposite regarding him with various degrees of suspicion. 

“Are you local, then, Mister Dwarf?” asked Otho, the male hobbit.

“I live in Ered Luin. My family came from the East originally, over the Misty Mountains,” said Thorin politely. Further details seemed unnecessary at this point.

“Dear me, the East?” repeated Miss Boggs softly, with a visible shudder. “One hears such stories.”

“I should think you were glad to leave it behind,” chuckled Otho, and the ladies either side of him giggled their agreement. 

“My ancestral home? No,” growled Thorin. He saw Otho blink at him in surprise and open his mouth, as if to defend himself, but at that moment Bilbo reappeared with an opened bottle of red wine in his hand.

“A toast!” he said, pouring each of them a glass. “Merry Yule!”

The wine was not at all bad, if unfamiliar, and Thorin drained his glass with appreciation, setting it back down empty. Once again he found himself the centre of shocked attention, and noticed that none of the hobbits had taken more than a sip of theirs.

“Top up?” asked Bilbo, grinning with delight, and Thorin considered. It was rare that they managed to afford good wine at home, when decent ale was so much cheaper, and Thorin had missed it. 

“Thank you,” he nodded, and smiled quietly into his refilled glass as Lobelia tutted from across the table. 

“I think I’ll just fetch another bottle,” announced Bilbo, patting Thorin’s shoulder rather deliberately. “I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to put it.”

They did, indeed, and Thorin noted with pleasure that Bilbo procured a third without the least hesitation, merrily refilling his glass every time it was less than half-full. The conversation turned to Shire matters as the smial filled with the scent of roasting meat, and Thorin merely nodded along, unable to contribute, though Bilbo was becoming quite animated. It rather suited him, his eyes shining with fury and his cheeks flushed. The little silk neckerchief had loosened itself and the notch of his throat was just visible above it, soft and bare.

“But it’s ridiculous!” Bilbo insisted, slapping his open palm against the table, although Thorin had lost track of what was, exactly.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, and found a fierce gaze turned upon him, so unexpectedly piercing that he floundered for a moment, unsure of what to say. “The goose?”

Bilbo’s hands flew to his mouth and he jumped to his feet. “The goose! Oh, thank you Thorin, my goodness.” 

“I shall help,” said Thorin instinctively, following him into the kitchen. It was something of a relief to leave their guests behind, he thought guiltily. 

Unlatching the stove’s door with a thick cloth, Bilbo drew out a triumphantly golden roasted bird, its breast glazed with sliced circles of the same kind of orange fruit they had shared earlier. It looked, and smelled, perfect, and was surely large enough to feed a dozen hobbits. Indeed, Bilbo’s arms were shaking slightly as he lifted it towards the kitchen table.

“Let me,” said Thorin, taking it from him easily. 

“Gosh,” mumbled Bilbo, clearly rather impressed at Thorin’s strength, though the dish was no great weight to a dwarf. Bilbo shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, and nodded to himself. “Now, the goose goes on that platter there, and these are to be arranged around it, if you could.” 

Thorin watched as Bilbo bent down to open the lower door of the oven, and swallowed at how tightly the action drew the cloth of his britches over his shapely backside. 

Then there arrived yet another tray, filled with parsnips, beetroots, carrots and potatoes in wonderful shades of purple and gold, sprinkled with some pungent herb that Thorin couldn’t name. He set to his task, grateful for the distraction from Bilbo’s pretty arse, and since his host wasn’t looking, helped himself to a parsnip as he worked. It melted in his mouth, faintly caramelised, with a toothsome tanginess to the narrow part, and fluffy sweetness at the fatter end. He had never been much for vegetables, but suddenly Thorin found he was prepared to change his mind.

The platter arranged, he turned to see Bilbo bearing a tray with a bowl of minted peas, a salad, and a boat of steaming gravy. 

“Back to the battlefield,” grinned Bilbo, and Thorin couldn’t help grinning back.

\--

“Ah, goose. How very… traditional,” said Miss Boggs as they bore their offerings to the dining room. She pronounced the word as if it tasted unpleasant. 

“So greasy too, if you don’t drain the fat correctly,” agreed Lobelia, watching as Bilbo carved the goose somewhat savagely. She filled her plate readily enough, noted Thorin with contempt. It appeared hobbits liked to eat much as Dwarves liked to drink.

“Is there rosemary in this stuffing?” asked Otho desperately, clearly trying to change the subject.

“I believe so, there is a definite aroma of rosemary,” murmured Miss Boggs. Bilbo beamed at her as he slid back into his seat beside Thorin, ready to begin their meal.

“Why yes, thank you for noticing!” 

“I cannot abide rosemary,” sighed Miss Boggs sadly, dabbing at her nose with a lacy handkerchief. “I much prefer thyme for goose, though I have always had a rather subtle palette. It is my misfortune.”

“Indeed, dear friend,” agreed Lobelia. “Thyme is the only herb for goose, I always say.”

Glancing sideways, Thorin noted that Bilbo was clenching his fists under the table. He recalled that his task had been to cause arguments, and so far he had not. It was not easy to get a word into the conversation, so garrulous were these hobbits, and Thorin truly could not follow how they managed to simultaneously eat and talk quite so much. Perhaps this was his chance. 

“I cannot identify the herbs, alas, but I believe this is the finest goose I have ever tasted,” he said, loudly enough to silence Lobelia, and Bilbo looked up at him gratefully. 

“I mean it,” he added sincerely, caught in that gaze and promptly forgetting that he had intended to begin a squabble. Somehow it seemed more urgent to reassure his host. “I have never tasted better, not in more than a century.”

“Gracious,” said Bilbo and scrunched up his face, his nose twitching in an oddly endearing manner. He looked down at his lap where his hands now rested, relaxed once more. “Thank you, Thorin,” he said, smiling, and the odd, pointed tips of his ears were pink again. 

Lobelia leaned forward, eyes narrowed, and her knife in hand like a dagger. 

“Now then, Bilbo dear,” she said. “I really think we might discuss a few more immediate issues, if you will excuse me, Mister Dwarf. It simply isn’t right, a Baggins behaving so oddly. We more privileged hobbits have an example to set to the community. Look at Miss Boggs, after all. She’s a pillar of society, aren’t you, dearest?”

“Too kind,” simpered Miss Boggs, fluttering her handkerchief and shooting what might have been meant to be a seductive glance at Bilbo.

“And a wonderful housekeeper, and her pastry is simply to die for! Really, I think it is an astonishing stroke of luck for you both to still be single, and what is more romantic than a spring wedding?” continued Lobelia airily. 

Otho appeared to choke on his mouthful, spraying half-masticated peas across the table, though no one present thought to object.

“A spring wedding?” spluttered Bilbo, sounding as flabbergasted as Thorin himself felt.

“Why not?” shrugged Lobelia, taking a smug sip of her wine. “I do wish you would be sensible about these things, dear Cousin.”

Thorin startled a little as Bilbo’s hand seized his own, his fork clattering against his plate. “And I wish you could be civil! A spring wedding indeed! Perhaps I will, at that, but not to you, Miss Boggs, begging your pardon, nor to any of these poor ladies you keep throwing at my door, Lobelia!” Bilbo spat, voice rising as he spoke.

“The impertinence!” screeched Lobelia, and Miss Boggs began to sob noisily into Otho’s shoulder.

Bilbo treated them all to a fearsome scowl. It really shouldn’t have been so attractive, thought Thorin in faint consternation, as his hand was brought to Bilbo’s lips and kissed ferociously. Durin’s beard, Bilbo’s lips felt soft.

“My sweet, beloved, handsome, strong, clever, wonderful Thorin, could you please help me clear this table?” asked Bilbo, gazing intently into his eyes, and Thorin stood up gladly, uncomfortably aware that his own face felt rather hot this time. Perhaps the wine was stronger than he had realised.

He grabbed the mostly-emptied serving platters and all but fled for the kitchen. Never had one of Durin’s line beaten so grateful a retreat, thought Thorin, more than a little ashamed.

Bilbo followed him a moment later, groaning. “Oh, Thorin, I’m so sorry. I swear, they’re worse than ever this year. I very much doubt a hot meal is payment enough, I don’t know how I can make this up to you.”

“You need not,” said Thorin, setting his shoulders and heading back to the dining room for the next load. Bilbo stopped him in the doorway, shaking his head. 

“I think I should,” he said quietly, evidently aware that they might be heard. He looked up at Thorin with clever, searching eyes, and Thorin knew without doubt that his stomach would have been fluttering if it hadn’t been so full of good food. “I am very much indebted to you and I would like you to know that. Perhaps you might come for dinner again, without my ghastly family? Despite everything, I’ve really enjoyed your company, Thorin.”

“Bilbo Baggins, move at once!” squawked Lobelia from the dining room, pointing at something over their heads. “Look at where you’re standing!”

Thorin glanced up. There was some sort of plant with white berries on hanging from the arch of the kitchen doorway. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, mistletoe,” said Bilbo, rolling his eyes with a sigh. “It’s a tradition in the Shire, if you’re both standing beneath it, you have to kiss. No obligation, of course.”

He made as if to move away, and Thorin caught his arm before he could stop himself. “Are we not betrothed?” he asked, and saw Bilbo’s eyes widen.

“I, er, well. Yes?” said Bilbo, a disbelieving smile pulling at the corner of his mouth most charmingly.

“Then, I wish to respect your traditions,” said Thorin, with more confidence than he felt, and bent down awkwardly to press his mouth to Bilbo’s. It was very pleasant, and he felt no great urge to pull away.

He had not quite expected to find arms wrapping around his shoulders nor the tentative touch of a tongue against his lips, but with a roaring sound in his ears he found himself returning the kiss until he had Bilbo Baggins, gentlehobbit of the Shire, held so tightly in his arms he wasn’t sure he could ever let go. 

“Disgraceful!” shrieked some voice very far away, and Thorin lifted his head at last to see Lobelia Sackville-Baggins standing directly before them, jabbing a sharp forefinger into Thorin’s arm, and the rest of their guests shuffling their feet behind her. “I have never seen such wantonly ill-mannered behaviour in all my days, Mister Dwarf!”

At last, Thorin appeared to be fulfilling his role.

“This Yuletide dinner is over,” said Bilbo firmly, never taking his eyes from Thorin’s face. His pupils were remarkably dark, and his breath rather short. “You can leave now, Lobelia, thank you. Thorin and I will take care of the washing up.”

“Dear me,” sniffled Miss Boggs.

“I say,” blustered Otho.

“Outrageous!” shrieked Lobelia.

“Goodbye, Mrs Sackville-Baggins,” snarled Thorin, his patience all but gone. “A pleasure to meet you all.” 

He glared at the three hobbits, Bilbo laughing into his shoulder, until they had the decency to bustle out of the front door.

“Not even a cup of tea!” muttered Otho, and shut the front door behind him with a satisfying click. 

Thorin looked down at the beaming hobbit in his arms. “The washing up?” he asked, just to clarify.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, flapping one hand dismissively and tilting his face back up for more kisses, “I think the dishes can wait, don’t you?”


End file.
